Canada was an Accident
by DormiDae
Summary: Black eyes, steaks, and Canada's true origins. Arthur/Francis. Hinted Ivan/Matt. Collab between Deinde and Noir Domi.
1. Chapter 1

Canada winced backwards as France applied the raw steak to his swollen eye. The older nation _tsked,_ a sympathetic and upset look on his face.

"Oh Mattieu…"

Francis threw a glare over his shoulder at Arthur, who was standing a few steps back trying to look unconcerned and failing, "This is all you fault Arthur!"

England recoiled.

"_My_ fault?! How is this _my_ fault? And take that steak off your eye before you get an infection."

Canada began to remove the steak.

"Leave it _on _Mattieu! You need it to keep your eye from swelling up!" France said sternly as he threw another nasty look at England. "You're the one who taught him this aggression, you and your stupid rugby."

The older nation looked back at Matthew. "Oh Mattieu, your beautiful face…" Francis reached out to stroke the swollen cheek, but Canada winced away before contact could be made.

"Don't do that! You'll hurt him you, idiot!" England lunged forward and snatched France's hand away.

"Unhand me you violent monster!"

"Monster? Now listen here! Matt's a boy! Of course he's going to get into a few scraps! It's normal for a boy his age!"

"Maybe for uncivilized beasts!" France shot back.

Canada internalized a sigh as the two nations who raised him began to fight. He should have expected this to happen, but he always hoped that somehow the two nations could put aside their eternal feud for a few moments to help him. Canada sighed. Clearly, he was hoping for too much.

"I should have never let little Mattieu stay with you! I told that judge you were no good for him! Look what you did to poor Alfred!"

"I am the father! I have a right to see my own son, you nit!"

Canada dropped the steak.

"What!" England and France both looked at him.

Sure he looked to England and France as parental figures, but …

"You mean really? Physically!" Canada shuddered. "You? You? Me…" Canada bit his lip feeling dazed and uncomfortable. There where some very scarring mental images going through his head. Oh god.

France and England just looked at each other awkwardly.

"Nice going, _rosbif,_" France whispered to England, but it lacked the baiting tone his words had had earlier. The two nations both realized that they needed to sober up and take this seriously, for Canada's sake. England winced as he tried to think of a way to tell Matthew without making the poor boy feel unwanted. They knew they would have to have this conversation at some point, even if they really didn't want to.

* * *

An: Next chapter, the explanation! And England is right. If you get a black eye, don't put a steak on it. It's a very good way to get a nasty eye infection. A bag of cold water works just as well.


	2. Chapter 2

France took Canada's hand.

"Mattieu, Sometimes, when two people are very passionate about each other, even when it's passionate hatred, that passion gets expressed… inappropriately."

"But if you hated each other?"

"Passion is passion, Mattieu." France turned his son's hand over, his voice wistful, "And sex isn't always about love.

***

_He was kissing England. Teeth were gnashing against each other, fingers where tangled in his hair, the top two buttons of his shirt where gone from England's vicious jerk to gain access to the pale skin underneath._

_France was kissing England and he had no idea how it had happened._

_"Jerk…" England whispered huskily into the kiss._

_"Asshole."_

_England's calloused hands slipped underneath his shirt causing him to moan. Hadn't they been fighting a moment ago?_

_France lifted his arms as England pulled his shirt over his head. Yes they had been fighting._

_England had called his outfit ugly. France told him that he wouldn't know fashion if it smacked in the ass._

_Insulting had turned into yelling, yelling had turned into screaming, and screaming had turned into France being pushed against the mattress with England's hand down his pants._

_Well fashion wouldn't matter in a minute. England pushed him back towards the bed. Soon all their clothes would be off anyway._

_***_

_France felt the bed shift and opened his eyes. He ached all over. Last night hadn't changed much in their relationship. It had been far from loving. It had been passionate, but angry. They were simply fighting in another way. Even when England had won the fight for dominance, it hadn't meant that France had lost. He bit and clawed as he tried his best to top from the bottom._

_He heard England rummaging for his clothes and sighed. The two nation's eyes met briefly. The awkward silence prevailed across the room until England slinked out and France collapsed back onto the bed._

_Their relationship may have not gotten any better, but it sure as hell gotten more complicated._

***

"And then I came along?" Canada looked ready to burst into tears.

England and France exchanged a look.

"Well… not immediately."

England choked, "Don't tell him that!"

England put his hand on Canada's shoulder.

"Matt," France sighed, "You may have been a mistake, but you never were a regret."

England nodded.

Canada seemed relieved.


	3. Chapter 3

Arthur was chewing on his neck. He didn't know why he kept doing this to himself. Every day they would get more and more hostile, and every night they would get… closer? Arguments boiled over into passionate (and violent) clashes of teeth and flesh. It was not making love, there was no way anyone could call it that. It was fucking. They would bite and suck and shove and the argument would be forgotten and never resolved. And with each little issue left unresolved, their encounters got rougher.

Arthur grabbed a fistful of Francis's hair and yanked to get better access to the Frenchman's smooth neck. Francis hissed in a mixture of pain and pleasure and raked his nails down England's back.

"You were wrong, Rosbif." Arthur snarled and yanked Francis down into a bruising kiss, clacking their teeth together painfully and biting down hard on Francis' lower lip before forcing his tongue into the moaning Francis' warm wet mouth.

They couldn't keep doing this. Every encounter got more violent, and eventually someone was going to get hurt. Francis could feel a something stirring in his stomach, a bizarre clenching.

Francis shoved Arthur away violently. He could see Arthur's confused face. He may have not been submissive per say, but it was an aggressive move for the blonde.

Then Francis bolted out of the room, leaving a very confuse England behind. He threw himself down in front of the chamber pot and emptied the contents of his stomach. Ugh.

"Oh bloody hell, Drunk again France? Well that explains your stupid comments earlier."

Francis groaned as his hair fell into his face and he vomited again, the ends of the golden locks getting ruined with regurgitated shellfish and baguettes. He didn't need this. The bastard could at least hold his hair!

"Non. Je n'ai bu pas de vin, connard!"

Arthur snorted. "I assume that means "Yes, I am a stupid blonde who doesn't know my own tolerance."

Francis gathered a bit of spit in his mouth and tried to use it to help rinse out the worst of the residue as the heaves eased. "I haven't drunk anything today, you asshole. You threw my bottle of Muscadet into the wall!" France hissed. God, he was sick and England was still being a bastard. "Come hold my hair."

Arthur snorted. "You wish. If you haven't been drinking then your sick, and hell if I'm risking catching it." Arthur spun on his heel. "I see you later."

Francis watched in amazement as the snooty Brit just strolled out of the room, leaving France kneeling on the floor with vomit soaked hair.

British gentleman his ass.

***

That night had been then end of their violent little tryst. Francis couldn't say whether or not he was glad for it. With the lack of exercise, his abdomen seemed to be growing. It seemed there was no food he could eat (when he could eat) that would trim him down, no amount of walking or running or other more sordid things that could get him back to his normal svelte self.

It was troublesome. To his knowledge, there wasn't much going on that would explain this bulge, the sudden cravings for ratatouille at two in the morning and the waves of sickness that plagued him.

A sharp sting pierced his arm and he turned his head to see the blood flowing into the silver basin underneath.

He looked up at the royal physician, "You are sure this is safe?"

"Humm?" the man looked up. A scraggle of white hair had fallen out of his ponytail, "Yes, yes, of course monsieur! Why, I have had to do this on the king himself several times! Always works! Just the trick, it is."

Francis sighed.

"Yes this will make whatever little demon's in there get a -runnin'!" France ran his hands nervously over the bump.

*thrum*

Francis frowned as he felt a shove against his hand. Something pushing him from the inside. Something alive. Something moving.

"Oh, mon dieu! Jesus, sa mere Marie! Aidez-moi!"

The physician jumped back. "What? What is it?"

But Francis was already gone, wrapping his arm the best he could with the gauze he had snatched off the table.

He had to go find Antonio!

***

"Wait, wait, Francis- Slow down! I can't understand you!"

"Il-ya un demon dans ma stomache!"

"Un demonio?!"

"OUI! UN DEMON! DANS MOI!"

***

Ah Drama. Anyway here is the next chapter. It would have been up sooner but Deinde had it sitting on her computer and kept forgetting to send it out.

Sorry.


End file.
